


Crash of Light Come Down (on me)

by skeletncloset (alexa_dean)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Dirty Talk, Ephebophilia, Fingerfucking, First Time, Inappropriate Behavior, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, Shy Jensen, Size Difference, Size Kink, Underage Jensen, Underage Sex, Virginity, hebephiliac behavior, kinda creepy Jeff, paperboy Jensen, songwriter Jeff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/pseuds/skeletncloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere though, between his front door and the sidewalk, fate came barreling toward him on a black and white Huffy with an ace stuck in its spokes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash of Light Come Down (on me)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from lyrics by Mazzy Star

 

[ ](http://s921.photobucket.com/user/kimletporter/media/cover%20art/fe854f11-10c5-4848-9ff7-e87fc559ed2d_zps8d1dcc01.jpg.html)

  
The thing about growing older not _old_ , because forty is hardly old at all in Jeff’s humble opinion, is that sometimes the rest of you fails to catch up to the stiffness in your bones. No one told Jeff this. Jeff just sort of grew: taller and a little hairier. His tastes however, maintained as they’d been when he’d been smooth-skinned and lanky, when his mouth was yet unskilled.

  
It wasn’t daddy kink, not really, unless Jeff’s partner of the night insisted he play the role. For Jeff it was nostalgia, pure and simple; his own pitiful attempt to relive his youth and reclaim some sort of wonder, a wicked sort of innocence. It was youth that drew him in and too much experience that repelled him.

  
Jeff will admit he _does_  have a type. His palate is geared to toe the line of legal. Sure, Jeff did favor blonds for their ostensive hairlessness; the sort of boys that could go two or three days without shaving. Maybe more. He’d never had to pursue anyone and definitely never took advantage of any of the exceptionally beautiful people his line of work regularly kept him in contact with.

  
As a songwriter, he had the privilege of working from home and keeping his own hours. Mostly he stayed up all night and would sleep in until noon. And so it was particularly unusual for him to find himself squinting into the morning light to greet the paperboy. In fact, he didn’t even know he _had_  a paperboy.

  
At first Jeff blamed himself for not waiting until he’d been done knuckling the sleep from his eyes and had a full pot of coffee in his belly. But he’d been on quite a roll; had felt especially inspired and he’d wanted to step out for a bit of fresh air between one verse and the next and take advantage to root around his mailbox.

  
Somewhere though, between his front door and the sidewalk, fate came barreling toward him on a black and white Huffy with an ace stuck in its spokes.

  
One thing Jeff knew about himself is that he never intended to settle down or have any kids. Kids were an unpredictable variable and one thing he wanted in life was predictability, which to Jeff was synonymous with stability and security and all kinds of things associated with responsible adults. Attachments were messy.

  
Jeff was a neat and tidy guy with simple tastes and a simpler love life.

  
But _that_  day was something altogether different, unable to be fully imagined, much like Jensen Ross Ackles can never be perfectly remembered: his large eyes, round as half dollars, bridge of his nose adorably sunburnt and be-speckled, and his delicate fingers bundling in the hairy vegetation of Jeff’s forearm like twigs as he struggled to get Jeff to his feet.

  
The boy was less Peter Pan than Wendy gone feral. If Wendy wore oversized shirts the size of nightgowns with collars so stretched they slip-slid over collarbones and each sleeve opened up like a magician’s robe to reveal lily-white armpits devoid of hair. He had the sort of wide-eyed beauty that begged for wet, dirty words and a deviant hand. The sort that screamed “jailbait” in huge neon letters.

  
Somewhere between are _you okay, mister?_  and _I’m so sorry_  and  _where does it hurt?_  Jensen had introduced himself.

  
 _Jensen_. Two syllables. Two stilted pauses, a flick of the tongue across his teeth, quick as Jeff’s thudding, lurching, somersaulting heart had been.

Then, of a sudden, amidst the chaos of newspapers and a playfully yipping dog, Jeff had fallen hopelessly and fatally in love.

==

  
One of Jeff’s favorite authors once wrote, “ _morality is merely a question of time_.”

Jeff now understands completely.

  
==  
Over the weeks that followed, Jeff concluded Jensen was held together by bandaids. Jensen had a stubborn form of introversion that made him blind to almost everything. It wasn’t the clumsiness of a long-limbed colt, unsure on his feet, Jeff observed in Jensen, but the skittishness of a fawn, shaky with the instinct of self-preservation.

  
Jensen would labor and Jeff would watch from a reasonable distance feeling like a predator--the big bad wolf or a huntsman, or maybe a skeevy Prince Charming leering at a sleeping princess. The boy would come over every day to take out Jeff’s trash or walk his dog, even mowed Jeff’s lawn on weekends, which Jeff had only agreed to reluctantly given Jensen’s penchant for accidents.

Ironically, Jensen spent as much time sitting on Jeff’s kitchen island as he did doing chores. Jeff learned to keep his first aid kit out. Jensen would hiss and bunch up like a spring when Jeff cleaned his wounds, unable or unwilling to do the deed himself.

  
Sometimes Jensen would lean in, face so close his breath would catch on the stubble of Jeff’s beard. Sometimes their cheeks would touch and Jensen would startle and _ouch_ , making a show of blaming Jeff’s grooming choices.

  
Jeff would allow himself a chuckle and maybe a grin if he was feeling risky. He ran the chance of ogling so he schooled his expressions into mild disinterest.

  
But for all his practice, Jeff couldn’t control the little things. Like the way Jensen’s shorts would ride up high on his inner thighs, the skin there translucent and faintly golden like dandelion seeds and sky at sundown. Jensen’s parted knees, his tipped-out ankles, the bow of his legs perpetually akimbo, suggested a wildness in Jensen, a cleverness underneath his lowered gaze.

  
Then again, it was all wishful thinking on Jeff’s part.

  
Jeff settled for what he could keep to himself, that half-formed scent of stripling, tangy and rich in his lungs and Jeff’s mouth would well up with spit and his cock would swell and it wasn’t like Jeff was a small guy. Not in the least. It made for an awkward stillness that Jeff would instantly blame on his lower back.

  
And Jeff would say what he always said in those perilous moments-- _Time to go, Kiddo_ \--and pat Jensen’s knee. Drunk on his scent. His beauty. The easy way he broke Jeff down into feeling shy and silly as a kid.

  
==

  
Jeff nurses his beer, Jensen sprawled to his left, companionable, lazy with the midsummer heat. They rock quietly back and forth on a swing that begs for a coat of paint, enclosed by the hum of worker bees, safe behind a screened-in porch. Jensen stretches out and his feet come to rest on Jeff’s lap, trusting.

  
Jeff likes it. Jensen has been under the sun all morning; he’s warm and gilded bronze. Freckles have gained ground during the day over his skin like a conquering army. A breeze filters through, a fluttering of leaves ruffles Jensen’s spiky hair and he lolls his head to the side on his skinny, stem-like neck. His lips are fat and glossy from the sticky sugar of lemonade.

  
Against Jensen’s shins Jeff traces dirty words with his fingertips. Sun slices through the roses, seeking Jensen, filling his eyes with it. It touches their skin where Jeff and Jensen make contact, spotlights the hand sidling up to Jensen’s knee, covering the knob completely. He wants to kiss it.

  
Jensen doesn’t say much. He watches Jeff through sleepy eyes and Jeff watches back. At some point Jensen’s skin begins to change, to shimmer, to flush with heat.

  
When Jensen speaks, it’s so quiet Jeff almost misses it.

  
“Mr. Morgan?”

  
“Hmm?”

  
Jensen glances up and away, muscles tightening one by one. “I like you.”

  
When Jeff answers, it is offhanded even as something jumps and scratches at his heart but he’s sort of caught up in a daydream. The tight, hot sort that leaves him feeling like he’s been swimming in Tequila. “I like you too, Jensen.”

  
“You’re not listening to me,” Jensen’s voice filters in. Disembodied but severe. Almost grown up if his voice didn’t break as much as it did. “I mean I _like_  you, like you. Like a boyfriend—“

  
Jensen pauses when Jeff stiffens, covers his face with slender fingers, not quite taking cover, but close. Bless his heart but he continues anyway: “I think about you a lot, you know? I think you do too.” Then in a rush, he adds, “I want to _do_  it. With you.”

  
“What?” Jeff smiles a little dopily, because he’s certain he’s hallucinating. He’s drunk, surely. Except Jeff thinks back on everything. It dawns on him that Jensen had been flirting with him this entire time except he was too young to figure out how to do it. Probably even skinned his knees on purpose, the little devil. Jeff could laugh. Or cry.

  
But because Jeff needs clarification, he says: “I’m not sure what you mean by _it_.” He’s obviously a dirty old man, but he’s not a _bad_  man. He’s not forcing himself on anyone.

  
“You _know_ ,” at that Jensen’s bare foot shifts, snuggles between Jeff’s thighs, arch coming to rest on Jeff’s cock, already half-excited by Jensen’s close proximity. “ _It._ ”

  
Okay, that kinda does it for Jeff. The fact Jensen can’t even bring himself to say “sex” just wrecks him and he feels like he’s stumbling into a rabbit hole with his dick pushing dumbly against its constraints. Jensen rubs his foot against him again, pressing a little harder, a little faster; one leg falling open in easy display. Obvious that he’s hard too.

  
Jeff should say no, should laugh it off. He’s the adult. Jensen’s the child. But Jensen has been working on him all summer. Jensen is in his blood. Jeff can no more resist than he can help breathing, can no more deter the poisonous spider-crawl of his hands on Jensen.

  
Jeff _does_  kiss Jensen’s knee then, opens his mouth to create a gentle suction. Lifts and spreads Jensen’s leg higher. Jensen’s too-short shorts, three inches too high above the knee stretch at the crotch.

  
Jeff feels privileged. Jensen’s giving him this. _Jensen_. He hates to think of all the men that will eventually make their way here between Jensen’s legs. But he can be the first. The most important. No one else will have that.

  
They’ve stopped rocking. Jeff makes a quarter turn toward Jensen and Jensen makes room for him. The pull is gravity-strong, the line of Jensen’s slender thigh an unpaved road. Jeff is the first to be here. The only to find his way into the tunnel of Jensen’s short’s sleeve. When he touches the crotch of Jensen’s underwear, he finds it soaked through and hot.

  
Jeff grips it like a leash—like he’s afraid Jensen will cut and run--pushes it aside to cover Jensen’s hard little prick and sac with his open palm. Jensen groans and pushes up into it, splays his toes over Jeff, the tipped-arrow shape of his jaw pointing heavenward, exposing his pulse to Jeff as a reticent little sound flies up and away into the roses secreting them from the street.

  
The involuntary glide of Jensen’s heel forces pearls of slick to blurt from the slit of Jeff’s dick, filling the air with the dusky, salt smell of sex. Jeff cups Jensen, rolls his balls between his fingers, thinks of sucking the sweet little sac inside his mouth, scratching Jensen’s thighs with his chin, scenting himself, scenting Jensen, coming away wet with him. He wonders just how far to take this. How far Jensen will let him. If only Jeff could prolong the moment, preserve Jensen’s innocence.

  
But Jensen is concentrated motion, frenzied and seemingly helpless. His whole body chases friction, pushing between Jeff’s fore and middle fingers, even as Jeff thumbs the deep, thick muscle of Jensen’s perineum. Jeff can’t look away from his pinked face, his wild hair, swollen mouth and messy breathing. Shirt rucking up his smooth belly.

  
They’ve begun to rock side to side now. Jeff hopes the swing stays, even as it creaks in outrage, the rusty joints between one link and the next squealing. Jensen raises one knee to his chest and allows Jeff to curl the other around his waist.

  
Thankfully he’s also the first to say something: “I’m not sure, but, maybe—I need, _I don’t know what to do_ —“

  
And yeah, Jeff is most definitely a dirty old man because the first thing he does is sink the moist tip of his thumb into Jensen. Jensen’s body resists at first, then clutches anemone-like to the pad of it

.  
“This okay?” Jeff asks, even though he doesn’t think he can stop, wants to take out his cock and rub one out right there with only the feel of Jensen clenching around his first knuckle.

  
Jensen sucks his lip into his mouth, appears to tongue all around it like he’s kissing Jeff, like he’s taking greedy little sips of Jeff’s tongue. Jeff won’t permit himself a full on assault. He waits until Jensen adjusts, makes a decision.

  
“ _Please_ ,” Jensen begs, “anything.” Jeff circles, then pushes back in. Right through the _get-out-get-out-get-out_  of Jensen’s body, persistent until Jensen splits around him like a fruit, clinging to him, making way for Jeff, saying with his undulating body to take, to have, to keep.

  
Moisture collects in Jeff’s boxers, works its way through the weft and warp of his cotton slacks. Jeff imagines bending over Jensen, demanding Jensen’s sugar-tacky mouth, sucking the remnants of sweet right out of it.

  
Jeff keeps pushing and pulling at the muscle, steady and sure. He watches Jensen’s dark lashes clump together with salty tears, his fever bright cheeks, his lovely, slender chest and smooth belly heaving visibly under his gossamer-thin shirt.

  
The two of them drenched in sweat now.

  
Jeff’s cock twitches and strains. His thumb deep inside Jensen and he lets out a rough, smoky growl all for Jensen. Jensen’s toes clench up and his hands grasp at the armrest, the paint flaking around his fingers. His hips thrust and judder through the soupy, summer-thick air. His skinny body unexpectedly strong. Jeff thrusts into him, deep enough the meat of his palm comes to rest on Jensen’s skin. He makes a scooping motion, a violent pitching motion that widens Jensen’s eyes.

  
Jensen comes, just like that, hiccupping silently, muscles all locked up, digging and dragging all around Jeff’s thumb.

  
When he’s done, Jeff removes his hand, allows Jensen to sit up. Jensen looks shy again, eyes flicking from Jeff’s eyes to his lap and back again. Jeff had almost forgotten his own need.

  
Bangs over his eyes, sweat beaded on the half-formed angle of his jaw and above the puffed out bow of his upper lip, Jensen says: “You want me to—“

  
Jeff is already unbuckling his belt, pushing his waistband down to his knees, cock springing eagerly and slapping against his shirt in an obvious _come here_. Jensen scoots over and Jeff pulls him to a standing position. Hands on Jensen’s hips, he spins him around and shoves Jensen’s shorts out of the way, all the way down to his ankles, exposing the promising, shapely bubble of his ass.

  
“Mr. Morgan?” Jensen’s voice quavers, afraid.

  
“ _No_ ,” Jeff says. “Not like that. I won’t hurt you,” and sits Jensen down hard with a loud smack on his thighs. Hand on Jensen’s lower back he tilts him forward, palm sliding up and over the acute triangle of bone to rest on the back of Jensen’s neck. The other arm forms a ring around Jensen’s tiny waist. One hand to pull, the other to push him. Jensen’s shirt falls away from his shoulder, collar a stretched-out, misshapen mess.

  
Jeff humps up through the throb of Jensen’s hole, in the swale between his cheeks, frenum snagging over and again in that shadowy, secret place, drawing him in as if in safekeeping. It’s good. So fucking good.

  
“Just like this,” he hushes into Jensen’s hair. “Only this and nothing more.” Jeff doesn’t know who he’s talking to. He mouths and sucks at the back of Jensen’s neck, rubs himself up and down his cleft, slippery with sweat and slick and the unyielding humidity in the air.

  
Jensen’s tender and pink there, right up against Jeff’s dick. Pretty like the rest of him. He might have said as much because Jensen sighs into him, turns his head so Jeff can mouth at the yet gentle curvature of his jawline. Curls his fingers in Jeff’s wavy hair.

  
“Gonna lick you next time,” Jeff mumbles, “Gonna lick you inside out till you make a mess of yourself and then I’m gonna fuck your thighs and imagine being inside you. Eventually, I’m gonna want it. _All of it_. You gonna let me? Gonna let me put it in you? You think you can handle it?”

  
“Ye-yes—“ Jensen stutters, “yeah.” Jeff pummels Jensen with his cock, bounces off Jensen’s ass, ignoring the chips digging into his own ass as he ricochets. Jeff's pubic hair crumples between them, dampening the unrelenting _slap-slap-slap_  of Jeff’s impending orgasm.

  
He comes and clamps his mouth down on the meat of Jensen’s shoulder. Copious amounts of come slick them both. It’s gross. And it’s wonderful. And Jeff makes soft whuffs in Jensen’s hair. They sit like that for a minute or two, Jeff fighting the curl of a smile on his lips and loving the feel of his broad chest over Jensen’s narrow back.

  
It doesn’t last long. Because it becomes suddenly imperative that he kiss Jensen. That he kiss him long and hard and lazy. For days and nights and all the time in between.

  
When Jensen stands and steps out of his underwear and shorts, come trickles down his thighs--little more than a shimmer, but a _lot_  of it. Jeff can all but see Jensen wrinkle his nose.

Jeff removes his shirt and sweeps it over Jensen’s skin, trying not to laugh. The last thing he wants to do is hurt Jensen’s feelings. He remembers his first time and how insecure he felt, how hopeful, how terrified.

  
Jeff leaves no time for awkwardness, merely manhandles Jensen back over his wide-spread legs and holds Jensen up with them. His still semi-hard cock twitching against Jensen’s.

  
“Thank you,” he says, trying to communicate that he’s grateful, that he understands how much this meant to Jensen and pulls Jensen’s face to his, hand shaped to the back of his skull. It takes a minute of nibbling at Jensen’s lips, sucking on them until Jensen gets with the program. He dips down for a taste, once, twice, then over and over like Jeff’s mouth were a well spring and he were lapping up the water.

  
After a while, when Jeff all but forgets what he’d said, Jensen says: “ _You’re welcome_.”  


 


End file.
